


A Parliament of Roses

by hexnhart



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Canon Homosexual Relationship, Drama, Explicit Language, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, Politics, Silver gets a leg, Spoilers for S2, Swearing, historically inaccurate fiction, inspired by jane austen, legitimising Nassau, lovestriken maidens (and youths), pining Flint, pirates in Bath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4005925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexnhart/pseuds/hexnhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Flint goes to Charles Town without Miranda and is able to reach an agreement with Lord Ashe regarding the future of Nassau. This involves the Captain and his crew traveling to England to try and gain support of the great and good, before appealing to Parliament to review the status of pirates and colonists in the New World.<br/>Arriving in Bath, they are introduced to one Lady Cornelia Edmonton, who is to be their liaison with the English high society. But how does one go about inciting the gentry to sympathize with criminals?<br/>To achieve his goals, Flint needs to bear the scrutiny of society, attention from a lovestriken maid and his greatest dread - living up to Thomas' expectations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coarseness of Ash

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,  
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,  
And in short, I was afraid.

  
\- T. S. Eliot _The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock_

  
_Dramatis Personae:_  
  
Lord Peter Ashe, a peer of the Realm and Governor of His Majesty’s Colony of Carolina.  
  
Sir John Verney, Baron Verney, MP for Buckinghamshire, a character of great moral stature.  
  
Lady Cornelia Edmonton, a woman of noble birth and respectable social standing, abiding in Bath.  
  
Miss Mirabelle Edmonton, her daughter.  
  
Mr Raymond Cave, Earl Otway, Miss Mirabelle’s fiancé and naval officer (quite a useless one though)  
  
Miss Laetitia Barbauld, Miss Mirabelle’s school-friend and poetess.  
  
Miss Lesham, a chaperone.  
  
Clara, a chamber-maid.  
  
Captain James ~~McGraw~~ Flint, a pirate.  
  
Billy Bones, a pirate.  
  
John Silver, a pirate.

Including other persons unworthy of note.

* * *

 

In June 1716, the _Bath Times_ published an article, the excerpt from which follows:

…following the introduction of the Captain and Crewe of the ship _Seahawk_ , all veritable _Corsairs_ and men most Wicked, to the salon of Lady Edmonton. High Society at Bath was awed at the Courteous and Pleasing manner in which those _felons_ conducted themselves among _Gentile_ Companie. None the less, your faithful servant’s eyes are not easily deceived by Outward Pleasantries. Soon enough the Pirates gave a slip in abducting Lady Edmonton’s only daughter, the impeccable Miss Mirabelle Edmonton (lately betrothed to Mr Raymond Cave, Earl Otway) to the most Awful effect of scaring the _Maiden_ half to Death. Through great peril, Miss Edmonton was delivered of these felons and to safety, the Crewe of the Seahawk themselves were apprehended and subjected to the Strictest form of _Justice_.

* * *

 

\- If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination. And shall surely be put to death.

Captain James Flint did not believe in God, who allegedly wanted him and others like him dead. Flint’s only deity was the sea – impassive void eyes staring from Miranda’s aging face.

\- We have been taught that way. You can’t expect anyone to act differently. – Peter Ashe brandished a Bible as if to prove that the words were not his own and therefore beyond his power to change them.

They were in Lord Ashe’s study, its white panelling still warm from where the rays of midday sun hit it. A fine longcase clock ticked away the seventh hour.

\- What exactly are you trying to infer? – Flint asked wearily, arms close by his sides, close to the weapons he currently did not possess. A habit, little else. They have been at it for ages – the captain arguing his case of an amnesty for Nassau, the governor of Carolina hinting at some past misdeed that he did not want to, but felt necessary to admit.

\- I was a witness to Alfred Hamilton’s accusation against you. – Lord Ashe finally ran out of evasive clauses, his admission causing Flint to flinch.

\- What of it? – the majority of Thomas’ social circle were aware of the… ordeal, that was hardly anything new.

\- In court, James! I testified against you. Lord Alfred would not build a case on mere hearsay, he needed… a witness. I had no choice! – he was pacing the length of the study, gesturing frantically to punctuate his words. The Captain just felt tired, and hot, and thirsty. An image of Thomas, alone in a dank cell, flashed before his eyes only to be smothered by the more basic human urges as his mind sank into torpor. He had already mourned for Thomas and there was only that much anger and grief a spirit could process before degrading into coarseness, where betrayals were common ground. He was glad Miranda was still on New Providence, far and secure with her temper and her capacity to feel.

\- I am truly sorry this had to happen. – Peter spread his arms in defeat.

\- It would appear, such a turn warrants a favour. – it was a mad dash, but a well calculated one none the less. Surely, guilt would be a strong enough drive to turn the governor to his cause.

\- How do you mean? – arresting his soliloquy, Lord Ashe turned to face his interlocutor.

\- Help me establish an independent colony in Nassau, and I will call us quits. Forgive Miranda’s and mine mutilated lives, and Thomas’ disgrace.

The potent atmosphere bore down on them both, lending gravity to Flint’s words. Sweat trickled down the nape of his neck, but he was too intent on holding Lord Ashe’s gaze to wipe away the itching droplets.

After a few moments, Peter nodded and resumed his seat at the mahogany desk.

\- Very well. – the cicadas sawed out their love-songs outside the study windows. It was going to be a very long night.

***

For once, Lord Ashe was courteous enough to offer tea, and when that was served and drunk and taken away, he uncorked a bottle of brandy, to allay the hoarseness in both their voices after hours of debate.

\- To gain the ear of anyone of import in the House of Lords you need to be backed by half the landed gentry. Which is exactly what I am proposing here. Go to London, let them see you as you are - a man, not a wicked creature from across the sea.

\- And then what? - Flint rested his hands on the table. - Become another curiosity to them, no better than a talking parrot?

\- That is not to be excluded, but your exoticism will stoke their desire to know you. Before long they will be clinging to your every word. The pause was made uneasy by the suffocating tropical heat.

\- Just, for the love of God, James, don’t tell them the truth.

The captain nodded, hiding a smirk behind an intricately carved glass. Over the last weeks he had lied so much, Flint wasn’t even sure the truth existed at all. But that was nothing compared to the lies he lived back in England, the lies he told himself.

\- Would London be a safe initial bet? – Flint smoothly changed the topic, guiding Ashe to discuss particulars.

That got him thinking.

\- Hm… perhaps not. But by the time you may hope to arrive, it will be early summer. The livelier part of the high society will have retired to Bath. It’s quieter, but still suitable for your purposes; and far enough to stand outside immediate threat from the Admiralty.

It has been ten years, but somehow Flint had no doubt the stiff-collared thralls of His Majesty had not forgotten their slip. Yet whereas he vaguely knew his way around London, could visit some public houses for the liberally minded and suchlike, Bath was terra incognita.

\- You suggest I turn up at the bathhouse and start preaching, like captain Lilywhite? – seeing Peter’s befuddled expression, Flint realized he had no idea who Lilywhite was and promptly corrected himself. – Like an utter nut-job.

Judging by the subsequent pause, Lord Ashe had expected that exact scenario, or had simply not thought that far ahead.

\- I hope I do not need to tell you that such a course would be counter-productive. So I will require some manner of introduction.

\- Ah, yes. - Peter nodded several times absentmindedly. – And that is why you’ve come pleading for my help.

Through their talk he had recovered some degree of confidence regarding his superiority over this pirate captain. He became abstracted, already formulating a certain plan of his own.

\- No. You will help me so I do not blow a hole in your head. – Flint bared his teeth, dropping a hand under the table, as if to draw his non-existent pistol. It had the anticipated effect though – Lord Ashe recoiled.

The clock whirred and chimed a long trill, followed by twelve strokes. Something in it kept bothering Flint with its familiarity, but he could not pinpoint what exactly. He shifted in his seat, glancing at the exit.

\- Go. Tell your story.

\- I am taking my men with me. They deserve to be heard as much as I do.

Lord Ashe groaned inwardly – why did this man have to be so insufferably obstinate; how would a bevy of rowdy rascals improve his matters?

\- Very well. There is a certain patron in England to whom I may apply for help. But mark my word – nothing is certain.

\- It never is. We leave in two days. – Flint was already up, flexing his back like a predator stretching before a strike. Peter hesitated in the face of his resolve.

\- So soon? But we will need a ship to be provided for. And if I am to accompany you, some arrangements are to be made.

\- The Seahawk will be ready to sail in two days. – it was neither an offer, nor a question. The captain was merely stating a fact; one Peter Ashe, bound by the favour, was obliged to honour. Well aware of this, Flint turned and saw himself out with brisk efficiency.

***

Despite Ashe’s doubts, Captain Flint’s promises were promptly delivered on. By sun-up on the second day the Seahawk was rigged and stocked for her voyage across the Atlantic.

When the governor made it to the quay, bracketed by personal guard, a sloop was already waiting for him. Motioning for his entourage to stay back, Lord Ashe stepped into it and resigned himself to fate.

\- Your luggage, sir? – one of the rowers asked, rather spoiling the image of a noble gentleman sacrificing himself to the ruthlessness of pirates, that Peter Ashe was hoping for.

\- It will be brought in later, along with my valet.

\- Very well, sir. – the sloop splashed away from the pier, wobbling before the rowers caught the rhythm. Lord Ashe was certain half the cannons in Charles Town were trained on the Seahawk, and would not have remained silent had she been within their range. Yet here he was, being called ‘sir’ and asked about his luggage in an oddly courteous way.

The bulk of the ship drew near, casting a shadow over the sloop.

\- Welcome aboard the Seahawk, Lord Ashe. – the clear-voiced sailor who helped him aboard was leaning on a crude crutch on account of missing a leg. – My name is John Silver and I am charged with showing you to your quarters, since I’m pretty much useless for anything else. Apart from cooking your supper, that is. So there, I hope you will find everything agreeable. This way, please.

Silver chattered so confidently and so much, that after a couple minutes Peter Ashe despaired in trying to get a word in. Meeting the Captain would have to wait. They descended into the tween’ deck, his guide wielding the crutch with surprising dexterity, past the galley and several unmarked doors.

\- And here we have the guest cabins, and this is yours. – Silver stood aside, allowing Lord Ashe to squeeze past him into a low-ceilinged cubby-hole. As the governor turned to thank the man, he promptly bumped his head on a low beam. – Apologies for the size. The Seahawk is a man-o-war, ill-suited for leisure cruises.

\- This will be sufficient. – Ashe replied dryly.

\- Wonderful! Make yourself comfortable, your luggage should arrive any moment. – the pirate stepped back into the corridor, intending to leave.

\- I require to speak with your captain.

Silver chewed on his bottom lip before replying.

\- Therein lies a tiny complication. The Captain is currently overseeing the castoff, he is very busy. You will certainly see him at dinner, but not before that.

Before Lord Ashe had a chance to respond, a lanky dark crewmember barged in, with a sizeable sea-chest and a molested valet in tow.

\- And here are your possessions. – Silver beamed. – Thank you, Nial. Do make yourself comfortable, Lord Ashe. I will come to collect you for dinner.

\- The matter is urgent. – the sailor merely shrugged his shoulders at that and shut the door in Peter Ashe’s face, preventing any further argument.

\- What on earth are you doing here? – the governor turned to his valet, Victor, who was diligently removing bed-linen from the sea-chest. – I have made no provisions.

\- A runner came, sir. With instructions. He said they were from you, sir. – Victor turned to his master and bowed as much as keeping proper distance in the tiny cabin allowed.

\- Damn! – Lord Ashe had no intention to travel, indeed, his lack of provision regarding the luggage was not a case of absentmindedness. The previous evening, as Flint left his mansion, Peter sent a note to Captain Hume of HMS Scarborough to apprehend the pirate vessel and ferry himself back to Charles Town. He expected to be ashore before sundown.

Furious, Lord Ashe strode to the door with the express intention of confronting Captain Flint to inform him that the Seahawk was, even as they spoke, hounded by the Scarborough, and that Flint was in no position to demand anything of him, even less – transfer him anywhere against his desire. The door was locked. And turned out, as the man tried to force it, to be made of sturdy wood. Banging on it and swearing profusely had no effect but to alarm Victor, so for the second time that day Peter Ashe resigned himself to fate.

It wasn’t exactly fear that washed over him as he slumped into the single chair and rested his elbows on the rickety table. It was a mixture of guilt and regret, and somewhere in the back of his mind an image of Thomas shaking his head at him in hurt disbelief.

It was probably night by then, not that Ashe could tell in the confines of his cabin. When did he even begin to regard the cramped space as his? It was quiet save for the creaking sigh of the ship and the occasional trail of footsteps that resounded above him. So the Scarborough failed. With that conclusion Lord Ashe fell into a fitful sleep.

***

On the second or third day, when he was finally allowed above deck, he swept his gaze over the pristine horizon, hoping to see the three-mast outline of the Royal Navy man-o-war ploughing the waves. Nothing.

\- What a swine you are, Peter. – Flint said wearily, leaving his place at the wheel to join Ashe. There was no real malice in the words and that made the governor feel guilty. – You should have told your men not to wag their tongues when you set Captain Hume on us. It was far too easy to drop his spies the wrong coordinates.

Lord Ashe pursed his lips. - What will you do with me now?

Flint levelled him with a long stare – same as he did in Thomas Hamilton’s study years prior, with a look of a trusting man who had been taught better than to believe those around him – and walked off without a word.

Weeks passed in harnessing the fickle westerlies, scrubbing the deck and, in the case of Lord Ashe, waiting for an uncertain sentence to be passed. A couple times the creamy smudge of a sail would appear on the horizon, then float away again. The sky turned surly with clouds.

It was the first day of proper rain, Peter Ashe standing at the bowsprit, head tilted backward to wash the salt and grime off his face, that Flint approached him again. They haven’t spoken in days, the Captain being careful to avoid all contact, or just too busy to pay his passenger any attention.

\- You will do as you have promised and then you can sod off. For all I care, you are stupid enough to not pose a threat. The Scarborough incident proves that. – Flint started without preamble.

Lord Ashe attempted to draw the Captain into a conversation with some vague comments, but the other clearly wasn’t listening, so he went back to getting soaked.

Early next morning, the Seahawk came into view of the British shore. The cliffs that greeted her were grey with moisture – a striking change after the azure water and bone-white sand of most Caribbean ports – one crowned with an oblong building of rough stone.

\- What’s that? – the Captain shouted up to the crow’s nest.

Jonesey, currently on lookout duty, shrugged his shoulders, then figuring that was insufficient, he added - Dunno, Capt’n! A madhouse, or a prison!

 


	2. Generosity of Corn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seahawk arrives in England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking an absolute age to update this - I've spent too much time revising the chapter and ended up none the better.   
> Consecutive uploads will come faster, I promise

Unfavourable winds pushed them off course, so for the next two days the Seahawk had to crawl North-East along the coast of Cornwall, before she hit the brick-brown waters of the Severn Sea. Smaller vessels scattered away as the brig plodded upstream, towards the smoke-choked outlines of Bristol.

\- Home fucking home. – Silver grumbled and spat overboard.

Most of the other crewmembers appeared to share his sentiments, not in the home department (most of them had a very vague notion of England), but in the berating way they viewed the squalid huts on either side of the river and uniform manufactures further inland. Everything here screamed of thoughtless conformity and a bureaucratic system so convoluted that being robbed by pirates was preferable to it.

\- It would be wise to stay in town for several days, while I go on to Bath and make inquiries. – Lord Ashe was no more pleased with seeing the heart of the British Empire, that the men around him, though perhaps it was their surroundings: the sooty quay stank of rank fish guts, mud-larks swarmed to the waterline exposed at low tide, scavenging what the Severn choked up. A hasty wash and a rub later, the questionable gifts of the river were being sold from the dock-side along which Flint and his crew passed. After the wet chill of the Atlantic the weather seemed almost pleasant, the ground – oddly steady underfoot.

Lord Ashe wondered why he’d ever considered this place to be any different from the New World – the whores in Bristol were as well used as anywhere in the colonies, if a tad less tanned; washing water and bowlfuls of vegetable peelings were tossed into the street from various kitchen doors and the squalid squabble of life was quite familiar.

Apart from the prices, that is. They were forced to cough up coin every step of the way between quitting ship and making it to the first inn that didn’t demand a sterling per head – payment for Seahawk’s berth, where she rocked placidly in the outer harbour, port tax on the quay, a penny to the urchin who waved them towards the town proper. Damn, they’d probably be charged for drinking water in this place!

The landlord gave the motley crew a once-over and insisted on payment upfront, which was granted him without question. Flint thought it best to lie low for the time being, especially that their venture was on such precarious footing; the outsized brig in the harbour was already drawing more looks that wanted and they could do without the extra attention. They got a row of rooms on the upper floor of the outhouse - the landlord just waved them up the stairs, suggesting the might as well take the whole corridor and then, as an afterthought, informing the crew that it was pork roast today.

Lord Ashe shuddered at the prospect of spending the night in the flea-ridden mess of an inn, but a steely glance from Flint was enough for him to resign himself to the circumstances.

The following morning, however, brought with it a drastic change of weather and of heart. The sky was a polite blue, with cotton swabs of clouds ambling from the South. A perfect day for marriages, burials and supplicating visits, Lord Ashe thought, bundling himself into a post-coach on its way to Bath. His other musings were of his daughter, left in the care of his attendants and neighbouring plantators in search of favours from the governor. Perhaps, the sooner he brought this whole ridiculous affair to bear, the sooner he could board a ship back to the colonies. The four roan horses chaffed their heads and with a crack of the whip the carriage was underway.

***

For Lord Ashe ascending the steps to any door on the Royal Crescent and waiting for a footman to announce his presence to the owners was as natural as breathing. But then there were people less endowed than him, people to whom access into such establishments was banned or subject to multiple cover letters and introductions. After some shuffling on the doorstep, he was admitted into the shaded hallway of the Edmonton residence and a pretty maid hurried upstairs to announce him to her mistress. Without waiting for her to show him up, Lord Ashe deposited his hat and gloves on the hallway table and followed the girl up the carpeted staircase. Lady Edmonton would want to see him straight away, no doubt, for he was not some lowly favour seeker, and it was impolite to keep a lady waiting.

The study into which the guest was shown abounded in porcelain statuettes of shepherds and shepherdesses glazed in various shades of cream, salmon-pink and mint. Lady Cornelia Edmonton, widow of Lord Albert Edmonton, looked right at home among them, if a bit more wrinkled than the rosy-cheeked porcelain maids. She sifted casually through the mail, sorting it into two piles on the mahogany-topped bureau. The servant curtseyed jumpily – Ashe must have just missed her announcing him – and slipped away.

\- Lord Ashe! Peter, it has been ages! – the woman glanced at him above the tortoiseshell rims of her circular glasses before removing them and rising to give her guest a dry dissemblance of a kiss on the cheek.

\- Four years, five? And you haven’t aged a day. – Lord Ashe responded in kind. They sat opposite each other on the low settee. – How fares your lovely daughter? I have heard news of the engagement.

\- Well, very well. Thank you for asking. It is all true. Evidently, Cornelia was about to embark on a detailed description of her only child’s engagement, but the guest interrupted her with polite firmness.

\- With fear of appearing rude, I have come to ask you of a favour.

The woman emitted a low ‘umm’ noise and raised an eyebrow.

***

\- You understand, Lady Edmonton, that I am striving to dissociate Mr McGraw from the nasty little incident.

Cornelia Edmonton inclined her head in acquiescence. She was ready for desperate measures to bring a breath of life to her salons, which currently mostly consisted of half-witted veterans and poor relations.

\- That would require some degree of ingenuity – scandal is not easily forgotten. – she paused, gauging the reaction on Peter Ashe’s face. – You mentioned the name your protégé goes by among his followers. James Flint? How would you and Captain Flint like to spend a couple of weeks at my residence in the Crescent? We could start the introductions there.

Lord Ashe thanked her heartily and hurried off.

As he trudged through the constrained streets of the lower city, Peter silently thanked Providence (then corrected himself, since Providence bore too many associations with a certain island that certainly did not deserve his thanks) for having seen him through this gamble. He wasn’t sure he would be able to face an idling crew in a cheap inn on the outskirts of Bristol with the news that Lady Edmonton was uncooperative. Though Lord Ashe did not spare Flint much thought. He had lied on harsher matters to the man.

Back at the Sun in Splendour (and in fact showing none of the splendour it so ardently advertised), thoroughly soaked after a full day of riding post-haste, Peter Ashe knocked on the door of the corner-room, bringing the voices inside to a hush.

\- Come in. – the unmistakable saccharine voice of the crew’s grey cardinal chimed and Peter pushed into the room.

Most of the men were grouped around the rickety table, at the head of which Flint sat, his elbows resting on the table-top. They regarded the newcomer with guarded expressions, only Silver breaking into his characteristic grin.

\- How did it go?

Ignoring the cheerful cook, Lord Ashe addressed himself to the Captain. - May we speak alone?

\- I have nothing to hide from my men. - Nevertheless. May we speak alone? Flint sighed and rose, scraping the chair back as he did so.

\- Come. – they traipsed into the adjacent room, one that had Lord Ashe thinking that they could still be heard perfectly by all of the crew. This man had no sense of self-preservation.

– So what did the woman say? The captain turned to face him as soon as the door clicked shut, all dishevelled greasy hair and swollen eyes. There would be a lot of work needed before he was even remotely presentable to Lady Edmonton.

\- She’ll have you. – Flint nodded tersely at this. – But. You are not, under any circumstance, to be associated with me. Is that understood?

He felt good like this, addressing McGraw as a lesser, as he deserved to be addressed for the kind of life he chose, for this thing he was, no matter how well he hid it.

\- Yes. – it was said without being said, the defiant lack of ‘sir’ grated on Lord Ashe’s ears. – Thank you.

Sometimes he wanted to throttle the man, that man, whom he couldn’t see as a monster.

***

They gradually moved up the social ladder: from the Sun in Splendour to the cleaner, roomier inn on the outskirts of Bath, arranged in the style of the French _chambres d’hôtes_. The lodging smelled sharply of lemon potpourri and consisted of two rooms, joined by a door with latches on both sides. There Lord Ashe brought up the issue of their presentability.

\- I have arranged for a tailor to stop by this afternoon; and… a barber. And I trust you know how to use a washcloth. – the man cast a sidelong glance on Flint’s chosen representatives of the crew.

After much figurative head-butting it had been decided, that the whole crew could not be permitted to plead their cause, so the more appealing of their number were chosen as envoys to accompany the Captain. Flint rolled his shoulders uncomfortably even then, recalling the incident from the previous day. Lord Ashe was advising him on ‘choosing the most suitable companions’.

\- You will need someone quick-witted, punctual…

\- Nial would do. He was a foreman on a tobacco plantation for a time. – Flint interjected.

-… and white. – Lord Ashe finished pointedly. – The people you are about to visit hold no preference for the sable kind.

Flint sneered at the absurdity of it, but the situation left him no room to argue. And this was how he found himself seated in the corner room of the Sun in Splendour, interviewing his men one after another. It had been a long day.

\- Can you read? – Jonesey did a little balancing act with the palm of his hand.

\- Write? – the wobbly motion became more intense.

\- Right. On the off note – do you know what a harpsichord is?

\- A torture device? – the man hazarded, earning a sigh from his captain.

\- Sure is. Next. – as the seat before him was vacated, Flint ran a hand over his brow tiredly. He needed to be sure that whoever came with him to the parlours of the great and supposedly good was fully invested in his story. So far, the loyal ones were too ignorant and the smart ones – too coy. At some point the Captain thought how inconsiderate it was for Mr Dufresne to desert them at this inopportune moment.

By the end of it, and with considerate help from Lord Ashe, he wheedled the number of candidates down to five. Surprisingly to Flint, Jonesey made the cut; perhaps he had just stopped paying attention at some point.

At first light, having left the remaining crew a considerable portion of their allowance and a list of instructions, the seven men left for Bath proper and the potpourri rooms of The Rochester.

***

Now there was yet more humiliation to be endured. Their executioner was a restless young man apprenticed to a hairdresser, the kind that jogs up the stairs, loosing breath, and then idles in front of the closed door for ages because he arrived too early. His hair – a lanky mop – did no credit to the services he offered, although perhaps the proverb that ‘cobbler’s children have no shoes’ extended to barbers as well. He introduced himself as Oliver and immediately retreated towards Lord Ashe, tucking his valise under one scrawny arm.

\- This is going to be nothing but embarrassing. – Silver noted as Lord Ashe described in hushed tones what exactly it was he needed done.

A copper tub was navigated into the smaller room that, despite it being June, was pretty draughty, and Flint, according to his rank, was given immediate access to it. Oliver handed him a bar of soap that smelled of tar – ‘It’s for the lice’ and reached for the leather band that held Flint’s ponytail up.

\- Don’t you dare. – the pirate glowered. His look had a more potent effect on the ‘prentice than the gates of Hell – the lad scarpered as quick as possible and tugged the door closed behind himself politely.

The water tasted sweet, like someone spilled a measure of syrup into it, and left a raspy residue on the tongue – calcium. Flint stared at it for the longest time, watching it turn from clear to murky, then go cold. Somehow after the wash his hair ended up darker – a noble gilt-brown that contrasted finely with Captain’s light stubble.

The windowpane, turned by the fading daylight into a kind of mirror, reflected a brooding, severe gentleman. The image was not clear enough to distinguish the expression of his eyes. He was not given much time to reflect, as the door creaked open and a man entered. Flint, first observing the newcomer via the window glass, thought him Lord Ashe’s retainer or even some rakish friend come to keep him company. It was only when he turned around to greet the man, the recognition dawned. Anything he had known to be Silver before was gone. The man dressed in a sober grey suit, its cut accentuating the fine boning of his figure, and was resting his weight on the single crutch as nonchalantly as if it was an ivory walking cane. His toothy grin was replaced by a more reserved expression, the glint of sky-blue eyes promising mischief. Flint had seen unsightly whores transformed by makeup into beauties of the night, but this was something more profound and more disturbing. This was like a second skin covering the familiar John Silver, a personality so thoroughly faked, that had he not seen the real Silver grope at his amputated leg in the captain’s cabin, panic flooding his eyes, he would have believed this dandy gentleman with a melancholy smile. - I know we have our differences, but here is a piece of advice I would have you consider. – Lord Ashe followed Silver into the room. – If there is a slightest chance of anyone in your crew making a favourable impression, it would be him. He briefly rested his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, watching Flint sneer at the proposal. However, the Captain had enough restraint to keep his comments about ‘this snake-tongued twat’ to himself. After all, Silver just might have been exactly what he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Constructive criticism always welcome.   
> This is my first long piece, so please bear with me if the updates are a bit slow.  
> Find the playlist for the fic here: https://8tracks.com/thel-thalion/a-parliament-of-roses


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